


what’s your name / who’s your daddy?

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Sex, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Light Dom/sub, Modern Westeros, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Rough Kissing, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Dancing, THE TRIFECTA!!!, Teasing, bossy growly smitten kitten jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: When Sansa confides the trouble she faces with unwanted — but nevertheless persistent — suitors at her family’s many high-class events, Jon offers his assistance as her fake boyfriend. He figures that, for once, his mild (but not at all chill) romantic obsession with Sansa will do them both some good.He’s got one party, one night, to prove to her that there’s nothing fake about the way he feels for her.(work and chapter titles from “time of the season,” by the zombies)





	what’s your name / who’s your daddy?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts), [chocolateghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateghost/gifts), [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts).



> a/n: so rn my main objective is to finish my wips one-by-one, or maybe two-by-two (although i will be writing a couple of the longer ones simultaneously so they don’t sit untouched forever). i’m looking to finish the 27 dresses au first, but it’s gonna be a bit before they get it on in that one so...
> 
> this one’s for melissa, ya thirsty, insatiable tart; for brad, who capslocked at me about letting jon and sansa get naked together; and for vivi, because she just updated “love thy neighbor” and idek how to comment on it bc i just scream with glee the whole time i’m reading 
> 
> (scroll to the end notes for sansa’s hair & dress so you can properly appreciate how totally bangin’ she looks in this fic)

 

Jon Snow is not an especial fan of these upper-class political soirees, and that’s putting it politely.

He attends only out of respect for the Starks. They’ve been friends, mentors, his pseudo-family since his single mother brought him to live in a quiet hamlet off of Winterfell. They’d come to escape the scandal of her affair with an unbeknownst-to-her married diplomat, to which the Starks never batted an eye. They were all too aware of the sordid machinations of the upper-class, but this was still their world and now Jon finds himself living in it.

Which means that not only is he invited to all manner of these glitzy, luxurious events, but he’s expected to attend. So he does, however begrudgingly, but he keeps his attitude to himself and suffers in a silent sort of courtesy.

The food’s too rich and the guests drink too much and the hired photographers are much too intrusive, but — _but_ — Sansa’s usually wearing a dress with a too-high slit up the skirt, so things aren’t all that bad. Jon’s a reasonable man, after all.

He keeps this in mind as he makes his way down the corridor to the ballroom. Arya had texted him a snapshot of Sansa’s dress earlier — dove grey, a low-cut bodice of beads and glitter, a straight flowing skirt with the promised slit cut to the thigh. The accompanying message read _‘try not to bust a nut in public when you see sansa in this.’_ Jon would have taken offense to that, if only he could argue it. As it is, he can do no such thing.

Oh, well.

He adjusts his cufflinks as he walks, making sure to be presentable. The party’s not due to open its doors for another half-hour, but Robb had asked him to check on the bar and the caterers and all the rest. Robb would have done it himself — he was _supposed_ to do it himself — but Jeyne had arrived at the house and… Well, that’s about it, Jon supposes. He doesn’t need the details of Robb’s plans for Jeyne Westerling, only that they were pressing enough to abandon his responsibilities.

It’s just as well. Jon checks his phone again for that photo of Sansa’s dress. He could really use a drink before the night begins.

The night, however, has other plans for him.

He’s not made it halfway down the corridor before a door clicks open and he’s unceremoniously yanked into a coat closet.

“What the fu—” At first he thinks it’s Rickon, who’s known for pouncing and wrangling his victims into some elaborate scavenger hunt or game of hide-and-seek. But the hand that slaps over his mouth to quiet him is much too soft, and Rickon doesn’t smell like jasmine and vanilla.

“Christ, Sansa.” His voice is muffled by her hand. He grasps for the chain above their heads to turn on the light. It’s a dim, ugly glow, but it’s enough for Jon to see her face and — _yup, that dress_ , which looks far better on her than it does in his saved photos.

“I’m sorry.” Sansa drops her hand. She fidgets with her braid — an intricate thing that falls over one shoulder in a thick rope of red, loose tendrils curling around her face and behind an ear. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Is that what you dragged me into a closet for?” _Pity_ , Jon thinks; he’d rather hoped it was for a snog. Not that he’s got any reason to believe that’s what she’s after, but a man can dream.

“I was waiting for you in the kitchens,” Sansa explains, “but then Petyr popped in so —”

“Is Baelish the problem, then?” Jon wants to know. He bites back a scowl — Sansa doesn’t like it when he scowls, she says it’s _impolite_ — but he’s hard-pressed to stop it. Lysa Arryn’s second husband is a sore subject, the way he talks to Sansa, and Jon would quite like to hit him black-and-blue, eyes swollen so he can’t so much as look at her anymore. “What the hell has he done now?”

“Nothing,” she assures him. “I haven’t given him a moment to speak to me. It’s not even just him, it’s…” She trails off on an aggravated sigh and tugs her braid a little harder. “It’s this whole bloody _thing_ tonight.”

Jon frowns. “That’s not like you, Sansa. You love these parties.”

“I’m sick to _death_ of these parties.” She folds her arms over her chest, a sure sign that she’s cross. Jon tries not to notice how the motion pushes her tits up but, well… he notices. “I played ill at the last one so I wouldn’t have to go.”

 _“What?”_ That snaps Jon’s attention back to her face. “I’m the one who took your temperature — you were running a fever!”

That hadn’t affected how delicious she’d looked, all bundled up in bed, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed. Jon had had half a mind to beg off sick that evening, too, if it meant he could quarantine himself in Sansa’s bedroom with her.

She rolls her eyes. “I drank hot water and blew the hairdryer in my face.”

“You lied to me.” Jon points an accusatory finger at her. “Naughty.”

He gets a little thrill when he says that to her, and — all the better — it gets a smirk out of Sansa, too.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Daddy,” she teases him.

There’s no possible way Sansa knows she’s just honed in on one of his kinks. She’s only giving him a hard time (potentially a very uncomfortable, embarrassing _hard time_ if Jon doesn’t get out of this closet and breathe air that’s not so thick with her scent).

“Are you going to forgive me for being such a bad girl?” she continues, laughing at him as she tugs at his lapel.

Jon catches her wrist and feels her pulse jump. “Stop it.”

“Only if you promise to help me.”

“Of course I’m going to help you —” he’d do anything for her, even if he doesn’t yet know what it is “— just quit mussing up my jacket or your mum’s going to look at me in that disapproving way she does. You know how that upsets my self-esteem.”

“I do.” Sansa smooths her hands down his jacket, straightening it as she goes. Jon wishes she’d do that when he hasn’t got any clothes on at all. “Anyway, I couldn’t skip out tonight. Everyone’s going to be here — _everyone_. Lysa and Petyr are already in from the Vale, and Harry Hardyng’s come down with them. Robert’s brought Joffrey along. And of course all the Northern folks are coming, the Masseys and the Mallisters, and the Boltons, too. Roose’s son is back from his trip to the Dreadfort, so he’ll be along this time as well.”

Ah, there’s the rub. Jon goes ahead and lets his scowl loose. All the eligible young elite, high society boys come to flirt with Sansa and try to win her favour. She’d just had her twenty-fourth nameday this past spring; high time for her to start arranging for her future. Not that anyone would admit to it aloud — no, that wouldn’t be in good taste — but apart from the usual political schmoozing, it seems tonight’s main event is all about the matchmaking, too.

 _Gods_ , but does Jon hate these parties.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters darkly. “Right, then. What’s the plan? You want me to play your doting boyfriend?”

Easy enough, he thinks, as he dotes on her already. It might give her a change of heart, too, make Sansa see him the way Jon sees her. He could achieve the same by simply asking, but… Well, all things at the moment considered, perhaps another time.

Sansa nods. “If you don’t mind?”

 _Hell no I don’t mind._ But that’s too much, so instead he chuckles and tells her, “It’s not exactly a chore, darling.”

Well, that wasn’t much better, but at least he said it smoothly.

“Thank you, Jon.” There’s a light blush on her skin; Jon thinks it must have something to do with the _darling_ , because she goes pink whenever he says it. It’s why he says it so often, and likely puts too much thought into it.

But she’s still fidgeting with her fingers. Jon frowns at that, concerned. Sansa’s only ever this restless when something's weighing on her mind.

He ducks his head to catch her eye. “Is there something else?”

“It’s just…” Another sigh escapes her. “You can’t avoid dancing at these things —”

“I’ll dance with you, Sansa,” Jon promises, though he tends to be successful avoiding it altogether. But he always takes Sansa to the floor when she asks.

She gives him a smile. “I know you will. It’s not that, it’s that I can’t turn down a dance from anyone who asks, it’s not good decorum, but some of them get so… handsy,” she decides, with a bit of uncertainty, as if she’s embarrassed by the admission.

Jon closes his eyes and counts to ten, breathing deeply as he goes in an effort to _find his chill_ , as Arya and the boys would say. It’s not that the thought of these men putting their hands on Sansa like that, without her express consent, makes him jealous or possessiveness or _furious_ — it’s that it makes him all of the above, and then some.

It makes him want to stake his claim on her, one that he doesn’t have but she’s asking for him to pretend. He can do that, easy; he won’t need to fake a thing.

“I actually, um…” Sansa’s nibbling at her lip, another nervous tic. “The last time, just to discourage him, I told Ramsay I was seeing you and he said ‘Well I don’t see his name on you, do I?’ and —”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jon growls, the words made all the more biting by his gruff northern accent. “Sansa, why didn’t you come to me then?”

“It was when you and Robb were out of town, at White Harbour for that conference,” she hastens to explain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t — I should’ve —”

“Don’t.” Jon soothes her with his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading the tense muscles. “No, darling, _I’m_ sorry. I’m not angry with you.”

“And you shouldn’t be, surely,” Sansa tries to joke some more, but she’s still coiled tight.

Jon wonders what he might be able to do to fix that. He’s got plenty of ideas, to be sure, though they’re probably not suited to a coat closet before a high-class party. There is _one_ thing he can do that shouldn’t take much time, one thing just as suited to a coat closet as anywhere else.

“So it’s not enough to tell them,” Jon concludes. It’s not a surprise; these men are used to having their way. “We’ve got to show them. Preferably in a more subtle way than, say, walking around with my hand on your arse all night. Not that I wouldn’t,” Jon is quick to add because fuck it, it’s going to be a long and intimate evening, he might as well set the mood now. “Only I don’t think your parents would look kindly upon such a brazen display.”

Sansa giggles, a bubbly thing that makes Jon think of freshly-popped champagne. “Oh, but the tabloids would sell so _well_. Could you imagine what Varys might write?”

“Well if you like I can grab your arse when you’re talking to him and we can find out,” Jon offers, lightly yet quite serious.

“I’ll consider it,” Sansa agrees. He crosses his fingers behind his back for luck. “What do you suggest in the meantime?”

“Something just as brazen but easier to hide.” Jon pushes her hair back, enough to reveal the curve of her neck. “I’m going to give you a hickey —” he presses his fingertips just beneath her ear “— right here.”

Perhaps it’s only a trick of the light, but Jon could swear Sansa’s pupils dilate. What’s most definitely not a trick of the light, though, is the way she licks her lips before catching the bottom one between her teeth. Jon thinks that, if all goes well, he’ll get a chance to do the same.

_One step at a time…_

Sansa’s gaze is on his mouth for a prolonged moment in which Jon lets his own drop to the dip of her neckline, and his tongue swipes across his own lips. His fingers tighten in her hair, he moves closer, nudging her impossibly sexy peep-toe shoes with his black leather ones.

“And you think that will work?” she asks. She steps back, just a touch. Jon follows, thumb caressing the line of her jaw, eyes steady on hers.

“Mhmm, I do,” he says. “You can hide it behind your hair —” he gives it another tug “— and when Baelish or Bolton or Hardyng or anyone else who’s not me gets a little too close, you can tuck it behind your ear that way you do when you’re nervous, and they’ll get a good look at what I’ve done.”

Sansa nods. She looks a bit jittery still, so Jon moves one hand to her waist and the other to rub the back of her neck. That’s her sweet spot, he knows, where all her tension tends to settle. He’d bet, given enough time, he could work out all her kinks. Maybe indulge a few of his own while he’s at it.

“Okay.” Another nod, a glint of steel in her eye as she fists his lapels again to keep steady on her feet. “I can do this.”

“Darling —” Jon chuckles, his breath hot in her ear “— you haven’t got to do a thing.”

“Semantics.” Sansa’s lips brush ever-so-slightly against his finely-trimmed beard. “ _You_ can do this, then.”

He hums in agreement and drops a chaste kiss to her cheek — would-be chaste, anyway, if he didn’t follow it with a whispered, “Tell me you want it first.”

She sucks in a breath, short and harsh, then tries to pass it off as a laugh. “Do you enjoy tormenting me?”

“I’d enjoy making this good for you,” Jon corrects her.

“It hasn’t got to feel good,” she scolds him, as if she’s making any logical sense at all (she isn’t). “It just has to work.”

“You’re a smart girl, Sansa.” Jon ghosts his lips beneath her ear, testing her reaction so he knows precisely where to kiss her. “So don’t say stupid things.”

“Just say that I want you to give me a hickey?”

His mouth moves a little more firmly now, both to encourage her and just because he wants to. “Mhmm.”

Jon parts his lips, flicks his tongue — she tastes soft and sweet and sharp where she’d dabbed her perfume — and Sansa shudders in his arms. “I’m much too shy for this.”

 _Hardly._ Sansa is the least shy person he knows; she’s a veritable social butterfly, kind and courteous and a skilled conversationalist. But he supposes letting a family friend debase her in a closet while the party guests arrive isn’t quite on par with the rest of that.

“Stubborn woman,” he huffs, amused with a touch of impatience for wanting her as badly as he does. “Just tell me.”

“Or what?” she challenges. Jon’s sure she’s going to tease him half to death. Between the close quarters, her lips at his jaw, body brushing his, the smell of her hair… he’s barely touched her and he’s getting hard.

To answer her question, he sucks her earlobe between his teeth — she arches, and he wraps an arm around her waist to keep her close — and murmurs into it, “Or I’m going to keep you locked in here until you say it.”

He nibbles at her ear, massaging the lobe with his lips, teasing it with his tongue. She likes it, he can tell as she melts, so he wanders down to that spot on her neck that makes her shudder. He starts off slow, coaxing her into further relaxation. Her pulse is going wild beneath the gentle press of his lips.

“I could do this all night, Sansa,” he rumbles into her neck. “Tell me you want more.”

He sucks hard, just once, at her pulse point, making it skip. One of Sansa’s hands flies up to grasp at his hair, and — _fuck_ , her hips roll against his when she says, fast and frenzied, “Kiss me harder, Jon.”

That’s good enough for him.

Just as she asked, he goes harder — not any faster, though, he wants to make this last. If he could he’d turn his head and devour her sticky lipstick mouth, he’d catch those breaths hitting his cheek on his tongue instead. He wants to taste her everywhere, from this spot on her neck down the column of her throat to the space between her tits and down and down until his face is buried in her cunt.

Sansa’s perfume on his taste buds, thoughts of dropping to his knees for her, the way she sighs when he licks a stripe up her skin, it’s all making his trousers unbearably tight. He wants to grind against her, get past that slit of her dress and make her feel it, how much he wants her, how good he can be to her…

He needs to get a handle on himself.

Jon is mindful to keep his hands in modest places: one around her waist (it does, admittedly, slip down to clutch at her hip); and the other at the slope where her neck meets her shoulder, where a simple chain of white-gold lays. He strokes the braided chain with his thumb, slowly, in time with the movement of his mouth upon her skin.

“How’s it feel?” he wants to know, voice muffled as he continues to kiss her.

“Good.” Sansa’s grip on his jacket loosens to move to his tie, using it as leverage to tug him closer. It’s incredibly hot. “So, so good, Jon.”

“ _Mmph_. Good. You want more?”

_“Yes.”_

_Thank the gods._

He walks her backwards another half-step, until she hits the wall of the closet and he can properly press his body against hers. He never takes his mouth off her neck, so he can’t tell her reaction; but then, the little moan that escapes her probably tells him everything he needs to know.

Jon can’t help his own groan, either, when he scrapes his teeth where he’s been sucking, and Sansa rolls her hips again. His follow suit, only once, just to give himself some relief.

It’s not enough, but more might be too much for Sansa just yet. He can wait — he _has_ to wait — so for now he kisses her neck roughly, more purposefully, opening his mouth wider and sucking like he’s trying to pull something from her. And maybe he is, in a sense; he wants her sighs and moans and bursts of pleasured breath. He wants to make her keep saying his name like that, the way she did when she told him to kiss her harder, that it feels _so, so good_.

Sansa’s hand is twisting tightly in his curls, a delicious pull that makes him groan, hot and low, into her skin. He’s breathing in the scent of her hair as it tickles his nose, so sweet and intoxicating that it’s making him dizzy. His hips rock against hers of their own accord — he swears he can’t help it, she tastes so good and her body is yielding beneath his, warm and welcoming and like she wants him.

He could do this all night, just as he’d told her, though Sansa had taken it as a threat more than a promise. In all fairness, he thinks she might prefer this to the party just as much as he does. Half in love with her as he is, Jon imagines very few things could compare to this; and those things that _could_ all involved Sansa, anyway, so really he’s quite happy where he is.

So of course — _naturally_ — his phone rings just as he’s slipping one thigh between Sansa’s own.

 _“Fuck,”_ he mutters as he recalls the task he’d been sent downstairs to oversee, and promptly ignored as soon as Sansa got her hands on him. _Worth it._

He keeps a firm hold on her while he answers the call. Robb double-checks that all is well, Jon keeps his response short, and all in all it’s a fantastic waste of time.

When it’s said and done, Jon stuffs his phone back in his pocket. He looks to Sansa, both of them panting hard (it’s a wonder Robb didn’t hear any of that). Her cheeks are pink, eyes bright and dark all at once, hair a little mussed. Jon’s sure he doesn’t look any better, though he would argue that Sansa’s never looked prettier than she does after he’s had his way with her.

He swipes his thumb over the mark that’s already forming. “Looks good,” he says with a smug smirk he doesn’t bother to hide. God damn it, he’s earned this.

“Felt good, too,” Sansa tells him. Her smile twitches, a bit dazed, which only serves to make Jon more smug — even if he’s not going to get out of this closet with anything less than a hard-on.

Again, _worth it_.

“I told you it would.” Jon’s thumb rubs further down to touch her necklace again. An idea strikes him and he unclasps the chain. “Here, one more thing…”

He removes the snowflake pin — a family heirloom — on his jacket and attaches it to Sansa’s necklace before clipping it back in place.

“A less sordid hint that you’re happily taken,” Jon explains. “Just in case any of those uppity posh boys think I don’t shower you with diamonds.”

“You’re an uppity posh boy, too, you know,” Sansa points out. But she touches the snowflake with tender fingertips, and her smile says more to Jon than her words do. “Not that you could tell by your dreadfully crooked tie.”

Jon decides against saying that’s no thanks to her, because after all he’d adored the way she yanked at his tie the way she had. Instead, he shrugs and replies, “I thought it was charming.”

He grins indulgently when Sansa undoes the thing so she might fix it to her liking. “It’s sloppy.”

“Says the woman who just had her neck sucked in a coat closet.”

She arches a brow. “Says the man who had the idea in the first place.”

“ _You_ dragged me in here,” Jon reminds her. _Because the gods finally answered my filthy prayers._ “You know I can’t resist you when you manhandle me like that.”

“I _didn’t_ know,” Sansa counters with a laugh. It’s a breathless one, like she’d not quite gathered her bearings yet. But she knots his tie expertly as ever and goes on to smooth his lapels.

“Well if any of your… admirers… ask, you can tell them so,” Jon offers as he adjusts her braid. He leans in one last time, to plant another kiss over the mark he’d left. He can feel Sansa tremble as he does so, and for once he’s actually looking forward to another schmoozy, boozy evening with the Westerosi elite.

When he pulls back, she’s smiling shyly, lips pressed together. She parts them to speak, a simple “Thank you, Jon.”

“Anything for you,” he says, meaning it. He desperately hopes she’ll ask more of him before the night is through.

He reaches one hand for the doorknob, and holds out the other for Sansa to take as he says, “Come on, darling girl. The party’s about to start, and we’ve got some hearts to break.”

And if that doesn’t work, Jon thinks as their fingers intertwine, perhaps a few jaws, too.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this **technically** isn’t another wip, okay, i just split it up to be an asshole (that “teasing” tag is there for just... so many reasons, mwahaha). next part coming soon! 
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